Men are but children of a larger growth, Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain.

Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.

Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul.

He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master

The good we have enjoyed from Heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill?

As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe.

So over violent, or over civil that every man with him was God or Devil.